Swept Away
by Deidara97
Summary: John is at a crossroads when he returns home to find his 5 month old daughter, Lucy, abandoned. Can his marriage recover from more secrets? How will Sherlock respond? Eventual Johnlock. Very mild language.
1. Chapter 1

"Jesus Christ…" A horrified sigh of disbelief escaped thin lips. Was she really this cold? How could the woman he loved do this? The only excusable explanation in his disgusted mind was death.

He shed his coat, dripping London rain, before rushing to the wailing infant. Each cry raked the doctor's thoughts; each tear fell like acid, burning holes in the father's heart. He scooped the child into his arms, her crying eventually lessening into muffled coughs.

Still in his state of panic, he ran through the apartment one last time to assure his observation was true. He didn't want it to be. He desperately hoped that the woman he loved had not left their 5 month old baby home alone for God knows how long.

John changed and fed his daughter, assuming to see her mother show up at any moment. He still believed Mary had only popped out for a bit and would be returning within the hour. But that was not the case.

After putting Lucy to sleep, he wearily waited for an explanation. He sat on the sofa, heavy eyelids struggling to erect themselves. The overtime at the clinic hadn't been easy on his health, nor had his anxiety regarding the state of his marriage. He arose only once to tend to his daughter who was crying once again for food and attention, attention she had been denied while both parents were away.

It really wasn't John's fault, but he inwardly hated himself for the child's suffering. He should have come home sooner. It was technically his day off. He should have ignored the phone when the clinic called. Where was Mary? Was she even coming back? What the hell is going on?

Questions swam in the sea of guilt that had pulled John's consciousness into a deep sleep, and he awoke to the sunrise engulfing his flat in a fiery red hue.


	2. Chapter 2

"I can't just sit here and wait any longer." John huffed under his breath as he stormed around the flat. He collected a bag of Lucy's things and secured the baby into her carrier, her innocent eyes trying to analyze his flurry of emotions. He bundled the child and himself to face the autumnal rain and vacated their home.

He hadn't thought of where he was going to go, but as he hailed a cab, there was only one place that came to his mind.

He arrived at his old Baker Street residence at around 10:30am. On his way to the building, he checked his watch, trying to mentally prepare himself for his friend's antics.

He's probably already harassed Mrs. Hudson by now and is buried in some sort of strange 'experiment,' John thought.

He opened the door and carefully maneuvered the baby carriage up the steps to avoid waking Lucy.

"Oh, John, glad you made it." There was no interruption to the tapping of keys and no break in the icy stare lit by the laptop's glow. The words wore flat and uninterested, all of which came as a slight comfort to John, knowing that some things never change.

"You were expecting me, then?" He set the carrier down on the kitchen counter before inquisitively approaching his friend.

"Eventually, yes. I was expecting you." The words only drew an even more perplexed look on the doctor's face. "It's been what, five weeks now?" John was standing in the kitchen now, facing the back of the laptop and the familiar mop of dark curls.

"Uh, no. Only three, actually." He savored the instances he was able to correct his friend.

The typing ceased and after a slight pause, the piercing blue eyes shifted upwards towards John. "Only three?"

"I believe so." The blond nodded, looking over the edge of the laptop screen. The analytic gaze shifted from John to the baby carriage, then back to the screen.

"Interesting… Everything alright, John?" A skeletal hand reached up and closed the lid of the computer as its owner rose from his seat and towered over John, who was now making coffee.

"Yeah, yeah… I've been better… but you know." His free hand waved as if swatting at a pestilent fly. He knew hiding things from Sherlock was pointless, but he had to try.

"What happened? Something happened." The words came out more concerned and rushed than the he had intended.

John wasn't in the mood to talk about what had happened, but Sherlock was never in the mood to back down. He gave in.

"I came home from the clinic last night and Mary was gone." John's attention stayed on his task.

"And? What else?" The words were still impatient and accompanied by darting eyes, which annoyed John.

"Lucy was in the crib all alone for quite a while." The irritation rang through his voice. He wasn't irritated just with Sherlock, or Mary, but with himself, also. There was a pause as the taller man realised he needed to back off.

"How long is 'quite a while'?" His face conveyed his attempt to assess the severity of the situation.

"I'm not sure exactly, but if I had to guess, I'd say about 4 hours… She was thoroughly soiled, and downed 2 and a half bottles of formula… I just… I can't believe it." He had finished preparing the coffee pot and was leaning on the counter with a perplexed expression facing the wall.

"Was there a note?" The narrow chin tilted upwards with the question.

"I'm sorry, a note?" John turned to face him.

"Did she leave a note anywhere, telling you where she'd gone?"

"Well, I mean… I'm not sure actually… I wasn't looking…"

"Hm… So now you're stuck with _this_ little monster." Before the question could be processed completely, Sherlock was walking towards the carriage still resting on the counter.

"I should've looked for a bloody note!" John's face had found its way into his palm as he shouted.

"Shh, shh. You're frightening little monster," the blue eyes softened and remained fixed on the awakening child. John had never heard the apathetic man's voice so tender. The lanky arm reached out and slowly rocked the carriage back and forth, stifling the formulating sobs. "There, there."

"It still baffles me, this." John pointed at the unlikely couple, mouth gaping in disbelief. "How could Sherlock Holmes possibly be good with children?!" He mumbled under his breath as he dug through the baby bag in search of a bottle.

"Quit baffling and hurry with the formula because somebody's hungry." The words contradicted the soothing tone in which they were spoken. The carriage stopped its sway as two long arms reached in and embraced the child, bringing her close to the man's chest. Lucy nestled her head into the crook of her uncle's arm and patiently waited for her bottle.

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**A/N** What do you guys think so far? I'd love to hear any suggestions for the next chapters! I hope you like this one, it kinda came to me in a dream I had, (I know, I have problems) and I decided to go with it. Please tell me what you think! I don't have everything worked out yet so I am open to suggestions! Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Every conscientious step John took to leave the room felt like crashing thunder. Simultaneously tiptoeing and mouthing a silent prayer, John cautiously pulled the door shut.

"Thank God." The voiceless words floated out with a sigh of relief as he slowly treaded towards the kitchen. "C'mon, quickly, before she wakes up!" John whispered a bit louder towards his old flat mate.

The brunette quietly stood up from his seat on the couch and grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter on the way out. The pair struggled down the stairs, never before noticing just how creaky each step was.

"Does it always take that long for you to put her to sleep?" The question resembled more of an attack.

"It does when _somebody _plays games with her right before naptime!" The blond shot back a menacing glare that drew a smirk across the detective's face.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson! Just who we were looking for!" Sherlock exclaimed as he reached the landing of the steps.

"Could you keep your voice down?!" John's voice was a panicked hush.

"Ahem, right…" the brunette looked down sheepishly. "_Dear_ Mrs. Hudson…" He exhumed charm and sincerity in the typical fashion that captivated John; it was like the flip of a switch. "Lucy is upstairs in her crib and she really should see more of her favorite godmother. Lovely chat, but John and I have urgent business to take care of." He caught the doctor's eyes, and motioned his head towards the door as he reached for his coat. Exactly like a switch, John thought as he rolled his eyes.

"Here," John folded the bewildered woman's hands around a baby monitor. "I just put her down for a nap." His voice was still hushed as he stood close to her. "She should be out for a while. Bottle's in the fridge. Call if you need anything. Thanks, you're the best!" John tried his own charm on her, but it just wasn't the same. The pair was halfway to the street as Mrs. Hudson realized what had just happened.

"You boys owe me one!" she yelled from the doorstep, thoroughly annoyed, causing both men to wear gracious smiles.

"Are you sure you're alright leaving Lucy with her?" Sherlock inquired after hailing a cab.

"I've been fine leaving _you_ with her for all these years."

"Yes, but I'm not a helpless chi— Oh, very funny, John." The taller man rolled his eyes as he folded himself into the cab.

"Is it normally this spotless?" The blue eyes were squinted as they observed and analyzed every aspect of the ex-soldier's small apartment.

"Yeah, we try to run a tight ship around here… I mean, every once in a while if we're both busy, things get a bit sloppy, but usually, we keep things pretty neat. It helps that we both like to keep the clutter to a minimum... But God, where could she have gone? No sign of her coming back since I was here this morning."

"Well, maybe if you'd stop talking long enough to take a decent look, you would find something of value." The icy glare that was being shot in his direction was invisible to the blond as Sherlock's back was turned and hunched while he examined the coffee table.

"R-right." The words disrupted any train of thought that may have been running in John's mind. 'I really shouldn't be so taken aback anymore. After all, it is just _him,' _"I'm going to look in the bedroom, see if anything's out of place."

"That would be good." His attention never shifted from its fixation on the sofa.

"You know what else would be good? A little appreciation. That would be good." John's sarcastic mumble was just out of the detective's range, or so he thought.

"We've been over this, John… sociopath." The words were monotone as they were not the priority of the brilliant mind. "When was the last time you laid your gun on this table?" His head shifted towards the hallway as he pointed to the low-lying coffee table.

"My gun?" John was trying to ignore the arbitrariness of the question as he returned to the living area. "I don't put my gun on that table, ever. Why?"

"There are recent scratch marks on the glass, looks like it was from a 9mm..." He examined the nervous look on his friend's face. "Not yours, then?"

"No. Those marks weren't there before."

"My guess is they were put here around the time of Mary's disappearance. You had been working late at the clinic and were tired and exasperated with your wife— you probably wouldn't have noticed them."

"Wait- How did you know I was working late?"

"Your white coat is still resting on the chair, and you didn't bother making yourself anything to eat, both of which could also be explained by your panic over Lucy, but I suspect that if your panic had been when you normally returned home from work, you would have come over to Baker street within a few hours instead of waiting 'til morning. Therefore, by the time leaving the flat even entered your mind, it was already much too late to be thinking of heading out, especially with a 5 month old baby. I do hope Mary has a 9mm; otherwise this mark could be from the gun of a captor.

The look of amazement on John's face quickly reverted to its original anxiety. "Uh, yeah, she takes it everywhere though. I doubt we'll find it here."

"Go check." Dark curls bounced as his head motioned towards the bedroom. The man did as he was told and rushed back moments later.

"It's not here."

"But she didn't take it with her."

"Why do you say that?"

"The gun bounced once, so she dropped it from here." Sherlock stood at an angle between the couch and the coffee table and motioned dropping a gun to the table. "The captor must've then taken it away from her reach..."

"Why would she drop her pistol?"

"Why else would you drop a gun? Think, John." Blue eyes were trying to extract the thoughts from John's brain. Dread consumed his face and his jaw fell as he realized what was meant.

"Oh, Christ…" John's focus shifted to the floor as he tried to process the information.

"I don't think I have to tell you her reasons for dropping it either. You and I both know she could've offed anyone who came through that door. Being outnumbered wouldn't have batted her eyelids." John shuddered and grabbed the back of the chair beside him to steady himself as he tried to imagine someone threatening his daughter.

"Has the lock been functioning properly since you returned home last night?" The sauntered over to the door, examining it for signs of distress.

"Yeah, fine—oh, no." The change in tone shot Sherlock into an upright position as his eyes tried to read the blond's horrified expression. "One of the staff came around about a week ago to change the lock. He said they were having trouble with the master keys and were re-keying the whole floor."

"But they weren't, were they?" The cleverness of the captor intrigued the sadism in his twisted mind. "Do you remember what the man looked like?

"Yeah… I see him around all the time." John's breaths were erratic and his eyes closed as he tried to wrap his head around the enormity of the situation.

"Hm, he probably was just paid off by the captor then. We'll get as much as we can from him… I think we're done here." He took one last scan of the room before looking to John for assurance.

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry. We're done." John blinked repeatedly, trying to brush away the concern that was consuming his features to no avail.

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_I hope you guys like this direction. Decisions are always difficult for me, haha. Again, if you have any suggestions, I am willing to listen, please review! Good or bad, I'd like to hear it. I am planning on hopefully peppering in some Johnlock fluff, but at the right time and place. Let me know what you think! _


	4. Chapter 4

John hated it when he was like this. All the humanity was drained from the detective as the distinct sound of skull fracturing echoed through John's mind. The scrawny custodian was pinned to the side of the alleyway, dangling inches off the ground by the collar of his blue coveralls.

"You have to remember _something_ about the man who handed you the money." Impatience rang through the firm demand.

"I- I done tol' you e'rythin I know!" The man reached for Sherlock's arms to alleviate the strain on his neck, to which the brunette pulled him away from the wall to instill false hope for a brief moment before heaving him back into the brick.

"I need a name, a face, an accent, words, anything at all, and _maybe_ I won't put a bullet in your head."

Under normal circumstances, John would know that his friend's words were merely for affect, but knowing that whoever they were searching for even so much as suggested hurting Lucy, all bets were off. Even the morally sound doctor was itching for a fight. All these unanswered questions and insecurities were becoming too great to contain. The pressure was rising, and if the pair didn't make progress soon, things would get sloppy.

"I really don' know…" Tears were falling from the bloodshot eyes.

"John." The stare between the stranger and the detective never faltered. And John, standing a few feet away knew exactly what was expected of him. He calmly, yet swiftly, reached down and pulled his gun from beneath his jacket. Without hesitation he pointed the loaded barrel in the man's direction. It was a rare occasion that he was as impatient as his colleague. John's expression clearly read "I really don't want to pull this trigger, but things would go a _lot _smoother if you'd start talking."

"Oh, god! Uh, 'bout 200cm, black 'air. Kep talkin' 'bout some guy, Ray…" This received a nod of approval.

"Good, what about the car?"

"Car?"

"So this 200cm man with black hair showed up, told you to change a lock, and then vanished into thin air? _Where did he go?_"

"Erh, it was one uh those big SUV types, black… blue maybe… I don 'member!"

"Useless." Sherlock threw the man down to the ground and dusted himself off. "A word of advice— next time a strange man offers you money to do a seemingly small task, don't take it." The tall silhouette was already striding out of the alley before he finished his sentence.

"Where to now? We got nothing." John caught up to his detective.

"To pay an overdue visit. You seem to have forgotten who I am, John." Sherlock called for a cab.

"Right, so then you know this Ray character?" John sarcastically spat as he followed his colleague into the backseat. After several minutes of being ignored, he decided to prod. "So, you're ignoring me then?" This wielded a roll of the eyes from the younger man. "Can you at least tell me where we're going?!" The blonde turned to face him, extracting eye contact from Sherlock.

"Sorry," the blue eyes sheepishly shifted downwards as he realized he was doing it again. "…I was thinking. We need to go find more information, but first, we need to check up on a certain monster." A minute measure of warmth sprang from that strange place inside of him that he was unable to fully comprehend. He tried his best to hate it— the emotions growing a bit stronger each day, slowly consuming the cold, unadulterated facts that comprised his life. He never could have told you then, but ever since he first met his only friend, his heart has grown increasingly capable. John had cracked his icy façade and squirmed his way in, turning the crack into a crevice, for better and for worse. Or entirely for worse, as Sherlock saw it, trying to look at himself, now uncontrollably smiling at the thought of the infant back at the flat like some sort of simple-minded imbecile.

. . .

The pair returned to a wailing child and an even greater wailing from Mrs. Hudson. They topped the steps to see the baby slung over a dainty shoulder, crying and vomiting uncontrollably; both parties seemed to be thoroughly exasperated by the whole ordeal.

"Jesus! We were gone thirty minutes, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted as he ran towards them and scooped up the soiled infant, holding her at arm's length as he hurried towards the changing table that had now become a permanent fixture at Baker Street.

"We were over an hour, Sherlock," John noted drudgingly as finished climbing the steps and set the keys down. The landlady's birdlike features revealed exhaustion and defeat.

"Oh, dear, thank goodness you came! It's been much too long since I've had a go at children." She chuckled as she began leaving the room, examining just how much vomit was on her blouse. "I am adding this to your rent, Sherlock." She sang over her shoulder as she started down the steps.

"I wouldn't get too comfortable, Mrs. Hudson." The tall man's primary focus remained on tidying up the other man's child. "John and I may need to leave Lucy with you again soon." She stopped halfway down as she heard this, her arms flapping in outrage.

"You've really got to stop doing this! For heaven's sake, where's Mary? Someone needs to knock some sense into you boys!"

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson… Mary is gone." John soberly walked towards the stairwell. Her face contorted in disbelief. "She disappeared sometime yesterday. We're trying to figure out where she went… You haven't heard anything, have you?"

"Oh… My. That's terrible." Her face froze as if she was trying to wrap her thoughts around John's words. "Have you any idea what's happened?"

"We haven't got much, but we've got a few leads I think we're about to check out… if a certain self-proclaimed sociopath will _tell_ _me_ anything!" He shot over his shoulder.

"Shh, it's alright. That's daddy's happy shouting." The unusually sweet voice succeeded at consoling the confused infant. "And if we are lucky, we will get to avoid seeing his _very_ happy shouting." He didn't even try to stop the smile that had crept onto his face as her head finally relaxed to a resting position on his chest.

John's complexion expressed both amazement and elation as his unconventional friend cooed the innocent creature.

"I'll leave you to it, then..." Mrs. Hudson began her leave before stopping for one last comment. "I really think it could work out, this, if you ask my opinion." She waved a skeletal finger back and forth between the two men, her other hand still resting on the banister.

John cleared his throat insinuating her departure. He shut the door and joined them in the living room, taking a seat in his chair. He buried his face into his hands, and rested his elbows on his knees as he let out an exhausted sigh.

"Earlier, when were outside, you mentioned something about paying a visit…" The volume of the voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes. We need information." Lucy responded to the soft baritone that was reverberating through the man's chest with a slight shifting.

"Do you remember the last time you tried to get information?" Skeptic eyes shone from under a furrowed brow towards the detective. "You practically got us both incarcerated and/or killed."

"Doesn't that always happen when we go out?" Sherlock's sarcastic tone secretly consoled John's nerves, but he wasn't about to let that on. "Could you hand me her blanket?" His head motioned towards the sofa where a pink blanket lay sprawled in the aftermath of Mrs. Hudson's stay.

"What are you suggesting we do?" He had unknowingly let his voice slip a bit louder as he stood, but softened it once he became aware. "Now that I'm a father, I can't just run around chasing terrorists and breaking through national security!" John placed the blanket over Lucy and tucked it around the long arms holding her.

"I wouldn't expect you to." Sherlock managed to flash a coy smile, but his peace of mind was drained when faced with the thought of presenting his archenemy with a request. He tried to restore his spirits by directing his attention to the child nestled to his chest. "We are going to pay Mycroft a little visit."

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_Sorry this chapter is a bit slow, it will pick up within the next two for sure. I still need to solidify some things and am taking all of your comments into consideration, so please keep giving me input! I really would love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading and you've my kindest regards! _


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **_So, I finally decided what happened to Mary, and my conclusion forced me to bolt down a series of events. I was going to try to avoid bringing Moriarty into this, but I now realize how stupid that was (after all, that's the only reason Sherl is in London). I'm going to do m' best to convey a good bit of suspense here. It is the first mystery/thriller I've ever written so hopefully it isn't too terribly disappointing. I wouldn't post anything if I felt the pieces didn't fit properly; so please review and I'll see you at the end!_

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The Autumnal wind embraced them as they finally arrived at their destination. The three hour journey by plane had been made more arduous by the disconsolate infant who was now asleep in a baby harness across john's chest. He attempted to carry her pink nappy bag without losing all of his masculinity.

They hiked up the steps to the grand new home of the EU's Archives in Florence.

"Would you like to tell me what we're doing in Italy?! Don't tell me we are about to break in to EU's secret archives." He leaned towards the detective as he spoke in less than full voice. The taller man only squinted as he examined the staff working the queue, scanning IDs and running metal detectors. After making a thorough examination, he hushed his reply.

"Would that really surprise you at this point?" He took long strides as his hands dug deep into his pockets. He stood tall as he detached the small belt that helped form the queue from its pole and paraded through. John paused before complying, his face showing surprise, but a voice in his head told him he should have known better. When had Sherlock ever stood in queue?

"Excuse me, Sir!" An admittance woman held out a futile hand to try to capture the detective's attention. "You can't go through there!" Sherlock was halfway to the elevator when he noticed the woman about to call for a security detail. He immediately changed direction, walking past John and Lucy who were reluctantly following him and made his way to the disheveled staff member.

"I'm sorry." He grabbed her arm. "But I am late for a very important meeting and there is no time to waste." His grip grew tighter and she tried to pull away in discomfort as he flashed an ID card he had forged years ago. The card was one of many aliases that placed him at an esteemed-sounding rank in Her Majesty's Secret Service that didn't actually exist. It amused Sherlock to see the little ants scurry away at some unknown entity.

The woman's astonishment and Sherlock's ego were both distracted by John's attempt at disguising his bemused chuckle in a cough.

"Ahem, sorry. Bit of a head cold… Will you excuse us then?" The doctor lead the way as the bewildered woman was left, jaw gaping at the scene that just unfolded. _Where would those two men and their baby be going with that kind of ranking? _

As soon as the gap between the two elevator doors had dwindled away completely, John let a smile consume his face.

"Alright then…Ronald." He couldn't hold it back any longer and let out a genuine giggle at his friend's antics. The snickering was contagious and by the time the doors opened on the top floor, Sherlock was doubled over laughing with tears beginning to stream down his face.

The pair struggled to regain their composure as they exited the elevator. They were immediately confronted by two immense figures wearing dress slacks, pressed white shirts, and security vests. The attic had not been modernized like the rest of the building so lighting was dim and the concrete had discolored. The beautiful architecture was raw and unscathed. This made the state-of-the-art vault door with alarm systems and vacuum capabilities a blaring contrast.

"No one is allowed on this floor without proper credentials. I am going to have to escort you back to the main floor." An uncommonly deep voice informed the odd trio. English was not his first language, but it was decent.

"I would agree, most certainly. But you see… I _have _the proper credentials." Sherlock stated matter of factly, holding his botched ID out firmly. After looking it over, the two men exchanged glances and then took turns staring at the intruders.

"So, your name is Ronald White?" A skeptic eyebrow raised as both hands held the plastic proof, trying to find its faults.

"And this is my husband and our child. And if you'll excuse me, I have a very important meeting with a very important person in that room." Sherlock pointed over the man's bulky shoulder to the sealed door encased in one of the archways of the ancient attic.

"Why were we not informed of this 'important meeting'?" The man's disbelief was more of a statement itself rather than an undertone.

"Because it is *extremely urgent and this isn't the time to be dawdling over procedure. Now, if you'll excuse me." Sherlock tried to skitter around the men, but a large hand met his chest and sent him back a few steps. A well-timed interruption prevented any further altercation.

"He's telling the truth, let him go." A light, yet impatient, voice spoke from the shadows of the under-utilized region of the archives. "Getting yourself into trouble as always… Robert?"

"As always…" Sherlock did little to hide the disgust in his voice as he rolled his crystal eyes and let out an annoyed sigh.

The man calmly walked into the light shining from the gothic window, the narrow point of an umbrella guiding the way.

"Now then, if you two would step aside, there is an urgent matter between…Robert and I that needs addressing."

The two exchanged another glance and did as they were told. The lanky brunette waltzed past the men, his passive soldier equipped with baby following not far behind.

After passing his card through the reader and placing his thumbprint on the scanner, the futuristic hatchway flashed a few lights and made a beeping sound before a series of gears could be heard turning for the name that opens doors apparently even here.

The room they had entered was nothing like the rest of the attic. Passing the threshold of the both security doors, the party found themselves shifting from archaic architecture to immaculate, modern marvel. Bright white lights shone from caged lamps and reflected off the white ceramic tile and white walls. The room was entirely sealed off with no natural or harmful artificial light. Temperature, light, humidity, and oxygen levels were all controlled precisely by three monitoring systems. Cameras watched their every move. Here, some of the oldest (and newest) sensitive documents regarding national security were kept.

"I must say, this is a first. And here I thought you weren't even aware of my presence at this location for the time being." The older brother spoke piously as he leaned against a singular table in the room.

"Don't be careless enough to think you are the only one who likes to keep tabs on his rival."

"Is this really the safest place for that _thing_?" The face contorted as he stared at the sleeping lump on John's chest. "You-know-who is most unpredictable and I'd hate for anything to happen to… em…"

"Lucy." John was getting irritated. "Yeah, it's nice to know the tables are turned this time. Thank you, Sherlock." John's spirits lifted at the discovery that _the_ British Government was out of his and Sherlock's loop— loosely, anyway.

"What ever are you speaking of, John?" Sarcastic bewilderment hung at the end of his inquiry.

"Right… About that… Well…" Thin lips pursed as dark lashes fell over pensive eyes. The tall man leaned over and pressed his hands together before explaining himself. "Moriarty is actually not returned." A simple shrug of the lanky shoulders preceded a quip of an explanation. "I utilized my vast homeless network a few more disposable resources to fake his return so that the Yard would have no other choice than to keep me in London. But much more importantly, Little One's mother has vanished and we need to know who may have taken her." He gestured to the baby fitted to John's front.

There was a long pause as an incredulous look blanketed unresponsive features. Mahogany eyes stared into oblivion before "I'm sorry. You did _what_….? Think wisely before you respond to my question." Sherlock pinched his expression into a childish attempt at apologetic, with his head hung sheepishly at an angle and a coy smile gracing his cheekbones. He couldn't hide the pride in his achievements, even if he was supposed to be ashamed. He _was _protected from his placement in reconnaissance, but he had also advertised a ghost of one of the most feared criminals in British history to the whole of the continent, which created a few inconveniences.

"It may have caused a bit of a stir, but that isn't why I came here."

"Do you have any idea what you have done?" Sober, horrified eyes returned to the room and met the detective's.

"Yes, yes, social, legal, and moral codes— broke the lot. Now, Mrs. Watson is tearing this man's psyche into shreds and whether or not it's intentional, we'd like to know."

"Don't think you can just let this slide, little brother. There will be hell. You. Will. Pay."

"Consequences, apologies, yes, yes… Urgency, Mycroft!" The soft curls bounced as the brunette scuttled to the shelves and began trying to decipher the order of the documents stored neatly on the metal shelves.

"Try not to breathe too much; you'll set off an alarm. He rolled his eyes as he turned to face his frantic sibling. "You don't even know if what you're looking for is here. Hell, do you even know _what _you're looking for?"

"I've got a bit of a direction… I may have surmised one or two of your key codes to access some online archives, but most of what I need is too sensitive for internet," his voice trailed off as he narrowed in on a particular file, "which is why I'm here… John!"

"No, _NO_! I _don't_ want to see it." His mannerisms and gestures quickly negated any participation. "I can't believe you're actually doing this to me. You've no idea what I'm going through, do you?!" The raised voice woke Lucy, causing her to emit a high whining that morphed into a cry. John quickly dropped his outrage to try to ineffectually console the child.

"Now, now, don't be rash. Here." Sherlock hissed disapprovingly and walked over to John and traded him the small box of files in his hand for his little monster. Almost immediately upon catching the shimmering cerulean eyes, the weeping haltered into erratic breaths. Sherlock reached into the pink tote that was now resting on the floor and fished for a bottle. "There, there. That was just daddy's _very_ happy shouting."

Mycroft had to almost forcibly return his lower jaw to its proper position and pull his eyebrows back into the reaches of earth's gravity at the sight. John just looked down, placed his hands on his hips, and shook his head. He would've been amused if he wasn't thoroughly exhausted, anxious, and severely pissed off.

As her head nestled against the man's chest, she slowly reached a miniature hand towards the bottle. Curious blue eyes exchanged glances as the gentle curls fell close. She felt safe in his arms; the warmth of his exhalations calmed her as she rhythmically nursed the bottle, one hand gripping a thin pinky finger.

Mycroft started for the door baffled. He stopped before exiting, "I'll tell them to let you out without question, but don't let your responsibilities slip. You will have to follow through with this 'little game' of yours, brother. You cannot jump out of a giant cake yelling "surprise" to the world like you did me. And don't expect me to go a fraction of a hair's breadth out of my way to help you."

Sherlock just stood, his back facing his brother, shifting his weight back and forth to lull the child, completely unresponsive to the nagging monologue.

John sat half asleep at the long table, one arm supporting Lucy in his lap and the other half-heartedly flipping through the file of Jacob Korvich, a dead CIA operative who had worked under the commander Raymond Brookes alongside three others on an extremely lucrative mission.

"Says here, two bodies were found and identified as the operatives, and the other two are presumed dead as they were discovered and cornered on a cliff of a private island by the target's men after suspicion of their infiltration arose." He mumbled as he sifted through the article for the gist of the information. "Says the two jumped down to the rocks, over 58 meters, to avoid being captured, tortured, and interrogated… bodies never found…" He looked up at his friend who was standing up, scanning three files at once. "Doesn't say here what they were supposed to be doing, though."

"Assassination," the word didn't interrupt his focus on juggling articles. "They were sent to infiltrate the target's men and plant lies and incriminating evidence against the pre-existing men in order to confuse the target to increase vulnerability. It seems like it didn't even have a chance to work, though. Before the first piece of evidence was even planted, they had somehow raised suspicion." John was well aware what the flat rant with a slightly inquisitive finish meant.

"So, the operatives were bad at their jobs, didn't fit in, got found out?"

"They are international criminals. It's not like they forgot to study for a test and failed. Countless hours of planning and research had gone into this mission and it didn't even get to the second phase."

"So someone leaked information?" the blond head tilted slightly.

"Bingo." The word fell from the distracted lips. "But who?"

"Could've been anyone, couldn't it?" He waved his hand in dismissal before using it to prop his chin, elbow resting on the black tabletop. He sat with his legs parallel to the table's length, leaning back in his skewed chair. "Someone from behind the scenes, the researchers, the operatives, hell, even the commander, maybe. You can't trust a spy."

"You did." For the first time since he began, he lifted his head and his interrogative eyes pierced John's half –conscious thought, arresting any thought processes for a moment.

"Okay. So you're turning this into an attack now?" John passively took the emotional assault, shifting only slightly.

"Not an attack, just a fact. You know me, John." He flashed his typical "your-plebian-logic-doesn't-work-on-me-because-I'm-Sherlock-Holmes" glare with a smile. "Don't move so much," his voice fell to a whisper, "she's sleeping."

John returned his face to his hand and scoffed. He would do anything to prevent his life from being a complete mess right about now. He couldn't keep pushing it away. Even Sherlock had noticed he was falling apart. Honestly, Sherlock noticed long before John did, but it was catching up to the weary soldier. He had to try to force himself to stop thinking about it, but how could he? Here he was breaking into a top-secret European Union Archive facility with his arguably criminally insane best friend _and_ child searching for information on his wife who is a presumed-dead government assassin. _How did it come to this?_

Bloodshot eyes gave a void stare as John questioned the world around him. The hollow expression captured his friend's attention.

He knelt over the table and added the file in his hands to the pile he had been working on. Even the introvert recognized John's instability. Or rather, it was his experience with such turbulence that made him so capable in this area.

"John, are you alright?" He tiptoed closer to the non-responsive blond. He came within arm's reach and knelt down in front of his chair. "Look at me, John." Long arms delicately reached out and hands gently fell on the limp shoulders, directing the man's attention towards Sherlock. The contact instigated a fit of blinking that served as an attempt to fight back tears.

They had been through a lot over the years, but this feeling was still foreign to Sherlock. It was different from the past. When faced with this sort of social conundrum, he would find words or change the subject or leave, but this time, there were no thoughts. No words could form themselves in his mind. The only thing the brunette could comprehend was pain—John's pain.

"How…" A sentence tried to form but got choked back by an onslaught of tears.

Those were his favorite eyes in the whole world. The first tear burned straight through his icy core, melting all of his ego and harsh words away. _Maybe there is a time for sentiment. _

"How?" It was the most John's frail whimper could produce, but it had already said more than enough. Sherlock had dropped his head, revealing only the messy curls.

"I'm so sorry, John... for all of the hell I've caused you... But that won't do... It won't change anything, my apology." John assumed the sniffling he thought he heard to be of his own accord. The gravelly baritone grew upbeat. "We can't give up the fight, though... We have to try and find her... So we can return your entirely dysfunctional life to a mildly dysfunctional life…" Soft eyes met the sleeping child cradled in John's arm and then moved to meet John's gaze. "So would you stop your crying?" The first uneven breaths of a sob couldn't be contained any longer.

Tears fell down rosy cheekbones as a cold hand moved to the side of John's face, a soft thumb wiping the sorrow away.

"Sh-Sherlock?" The ache in John's heart was interrupted by confusion and comfort at the rare display of elusive emotions coming from his best friend. He had to let out a subtle, light-hearted laugh at the state they were in. Two middle aged men, sobbing and holding each other, all while holding a baby.

"You're right, Sherlock." He used his free hand to pull the pale fingers from his face, embracing them as they fell to rest on his knee. "We can't stop this. This is what we do, isn't it? Catch baddies and save the day?" He tried to put things in a more positive light but wasn't sure if he was helping or hurting.

"Yeah, I guess it is." Sherlock forced himself to smile as he leaned back and tried to stop the tears from flowing. "What a tedious habit people get themselves into." At this they both laughed and the tension in the room began to fall away. All the pain had been replaced with something much lighter, much warmer, and much more complicated.

* * *

**A/N** _So, my creative whimsy got the best of my and commandeered my flight path, but I'm not too far off course. I am really curious as to what people think about this chapter; I kinda flew by the seat of my pants, (did I really just type that?) but I was pleased with the result. Sorry the lengths and frequency are erratic, but I am trying to get this done before I go back to school and I'm not sure how long that will take. I'd like to hear your thoughts about its direction— if you like it, or if you hate it and I'm an idiot. Or if you would have liked to see Sherlock kiss John (I toyed with the idea, too soon.) Sorry I'm ranting, it's been a long day. Catch you later!_


	6. Chapter 6

"So what does all of this with Ray's mission have to do with Mary, exactly?" The older man carrying Lucy struggled to keep up with the detective descending the steps of the building.

"A bit obvious, isn't it?"

"Sherlock…" An impatient glare shifted the air.

"Right, sorry. I was still trying to respect your refusal to acknowledge her _true_ lifestyle." Sarcasm peppered his speech. "One of the files I was looking into was that of a Hester Blanche, a woman who had been critical in organizing Operation Setting Sun for the American government since it began in 2003, and worked as one of the four agents of the operation."

"But they're all dead." They finally reached the level concrete and began heading towards their rental car.

"Presumed dead-" the taller man corrected, "simply secret-ops lingo for another alias."

"So Mary jumped to her supposed death and then certain people discover she's alive and want to see her dead… should be easy for you to relate to." John quipped with a smile.

"How many times do I have to apologize?" Sherlock scoffed.

"But still, you never told me the purpose of this mission. Who was the target of this infiltration?" Interrogative eyes dug into a reluctant detective as they stood on opposite sides of the car. John pressed further after Lucy was buckled into her car seat and Sherlock had put the keys in the ignition without responding. "You're holding back on me." Hurt eyes plunged even further. Half-hearted acquiescence produced incoherent mumbles.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Magnussen… The whole mission was to take down Magnussen." A look of surprise withered as the realization sunk in. The pieces did fit into place. _That's_ how he knew so much about Mary. _That's_ why he was so interested. _That's_ why she needed him out of the picture. But why did they organize the mission?

"I thought he wasn't a large threat to the government; that's what Mycroft was saying… So why did the American's want him dead?"

"Don't get into the habit of believing everything my brother says." The detective made a rolling stop through the large gates to the Archives which slowly rolled shut behind them. "Magnussen had yet to use his conniving blackmail against the English government, but he had threatened to release some rather incriminating evidence towards to DOD to the media."

"Incriminating evidence?"

"Apparently, he had papers signed by the Secretary of the Department of Defense that forced U.S. government to turn a few blind eyes in 2001 in exchange for information on Osama bin Laden's whereabouts, which turned out to be false and resulted in some of the world's most infamous terrorist activity."

"Wh- is that true?"

"Not sure, but regardless, hell would ensue of that kind of word got out, which is why they had to do something to shut him up before they were spun deeper into his web." His apparent focus remained on the early hours of Sunday morning traffic. They had spent more time than planned at the Archive's vaults and decided to check in to the hotel to devise a plan and get some rest before heading back to London.

After taking a moment to process the information and let out a dismayed sigh, John could only state the obvious. "This just got really huge."

"Indeed…" The detective dismissed his friend's amazement and continued expounding on his previous train of thought, "although, as careful as Magnussen was, I imagine even killing him wouldn't stop those files from being released if he so inclined… But the real focus of ours _should_ be on that fourth agent. His file was missing, so someone tampered with it, someone with access to the vaults, possibly Raymond, but more likely Magnussen. There could be the possibility that the fourth agent is actually dead, but we still have that unaccounted for information leak. It would be a convenient cover…"

"But you said it yourself earlier, it isn't child's play, this sort of thing. A _lot_ of work goes into these missions, and it would be pretty difficult to infiltrate as a double agent."

"For most people, yes… But Magnussen prided himself on his ability to manipulate others. He would have found a way…"

"But still, we don't even have an alias for this fourth agent. We've absolutely no place to start." An emphatic gesture drew the detective's gaze from the red light to the passenger.

"You let me worry about that—I have a few ideas, but I need to do some more research... You look tired. You should rest, doctor." This brought a soft chuckle from the blond.

"You really need to stop doing that. It's freaking me out." The driver's defenses shot up.

"Doing what?" There was a pause while a response was contemplated.

"Acting like a human being." John was leaning against the car door, resting his head on his hand, and letting a soft smile consume his weary features.

Shifty eyes only nurtured the smile until it became a laugh.

"You're right, I should get some rest... Wake me when we get there." He leaned over a bit more and closed his eyes.

"Will do."

The remainder of the drive back to the hotel was silent as Sherlock thought to himself in a car of sleeping passengers. Occasionally his mind would drift from the case and his eyes would glance at the child in the rear-view. He would never admit it, but he found himself rather enjoying the company. Certainly things were different now with the baby, but oh, how he had missed this. The emptiness created by the absence of his doctor was beginning to fade.

It wasn't long after they had settled into the generous hotel suite that the physically and emotionally exhausted father chose the isolated bedroom and retired for the evening. Lucy was fed, changed, and laid down in her carriage under the watchful eye of the detective as he clicked away on his laptop searching for leads on the elusive informant.

The hours that passed seemed like minutes until the sound of John's stirring and a glance at the clock proved otherwise.

"Is she alright?!" John came rushing out of the room. "She didn't make a sound all night! Not even a peep! Why was she so quiet? Why didn't you wake me?!"

"Oh, now you've done it!" Sherlock exclaimed as the baby began to cry at her father's shouting. "_I_ took care of her. It's not like you were asleep for more than a few hours anyway." The blue eyes rolled dramatically as John tried to console the wailing child. After he began to get her under control, his friend's words registered.

"Wait, you did?" He only received the 'Why don't you listen the first time?' face in response. "Well, I just thought… It's just that you…."

"Spit it out or shut up! I'm trying to think, John!"

"That! Exactly that! You won't answer a bloody _text_ when you're working on a case! Why the hell would you—" His sentence was interrupted as he realized what he was saying. "…You really care, don't you?" The blonde's expression softened. His head made slight nodding motions as he warmed up to the idea that there was a soft spot on The Great Sherlock Holmes. "Really surprises me, this…"

"Trying to think."

"Hm… 'course you are." John smiled as he carried Lucy into the kitchen to prepare her breakfast.

After John had made it to his second cup of coffee, he sat down at the table adjacent to the sleep deprived detective. There was a long moment of silence before either of them spoke.

"So how long are you going to keep me in the dark about all of this?" John leaned in over his mug as he inquired.

"You really should try and keep up."

"Right, sorry." John knew defending himself was a waste of his precious energy.

"In short, I knew I needed to find the informant somehow. I decided the most effective way would be to hack into some surveillance records Mycroft had been keeping on Magnussen's contacts—just a list of names, dates, places, and documentation of the meetings. It was rather simple, actually. I looked up everyone he had contacted between the time of the September 11th attacks and the time activity would have started on Setting Sun—the operation to infiltrate and take down Magnussen—and then ruled out any of the impossible candidates. Then I did the same with an eight month period after the operation's dissolution—8 months rather than 6 just to be safe. There was a face with no name that spontaneously became Robert Kyle after a few anonymous meetings with Magnussen. It took some time, but I was able to find the same face in the first list of contacts—a James Santinova, a CIA agent with 9 years' experience. When I went back into the contact records for the time _during_ the operation, I found countless other instances of meetings, some documented better than others, between the two. Santinova is either a real person or a solid alias; I couldn't find any loose ends there. So I looked into this Robert Kyle and found close to nothing. No bank accounts, tax records, medical records, —completely off the grid.

"Except?"

"Except for his death record."

"…Great. So our lead is in a coffin?"

"Bullet through the head. Would you like to see the crime scene photos?" He flipped his laptop around to show the gruesome pictures. "Autopsy in the report puts time of death at 12 hours before."

"Lovely," The soldier sipped his coffee unamused. "… _but_…"

"Go on…"

"If that report is accurate, he's not dead." He squinted to get a better look.

"Good..." An unethically enthusiastic tone sat in the brunette's voice.

"If it was 12 hours, Livor mortis should've set in. His skin's not even pale."

"And?"

"Blood's not even dry" The doctor leaned back, almost disappointed in himself for not seeing it sooner… "Someone didn't think that one through." He took another sip of his coffee. "So, Magnussen plants this bloke into an American operation designed to kill him; the plant feeds Magnussen the American's Intel, which he in turn gives to his guards, which gets two of the American's killed leaving one to escape, but then she gets abducted. The go-between is presumed dead and picks up a new identity, but then he has to fake his own death again? Why?"

"Someone found out. This 'death' was reported three days ago. He knows people are searching for him, now that Magnussen's gone."

"Right…" John had to shake that horrid scene from his head for the hundredth time. "Okay, so who would want him dead, besides every medical examiner in the world for being so stupid and careless?"

"Just think John, who would be upset about a secret agent leaking their Intel?" A look of revelation landed on his face.

"The Americans."

"There you go."

"So how did they find out?"

"My guess is that Mary knew but kept to herself, but somehow Ray got a hold of the information and came to her for answers, or assistance."

"But how did _Ray_ find out?" A hand rubbed perplexed eyebrows, struggling to follow.

"The timing can't be a coincidence. It _has_ to be related to Magnussen's death." The man stood up and began pacing furiously. "Something was released after he died… But what?!"

**A/N ** _Thank you for reading! Sorry if this may seem a bit raw, I wanted to get it up before my battery died bc the charger is in the other room. Epitome of laziness. Please let me know what you think! If it gets hard to follow, please tell me so I can improve in the next chapters! _


	7. Chapter 7

Typically, the only distractions the consulting detective encountered on cases were external, but as he settled back into the familiar, cramped apartment, he could not shake the scene of the previous evening from his head. Watching that single tear fall had caused him so much pain. He was enraged and confused. Sherlock, confused? These emotions were so foreign to him; they consumed his train of thought.

Crystalline eyes spun around the room as the silence was broken.

"Sherlock…" The blond called from his chair, laptop resting on his knees. "…About last night…" His gaze fell back down to the keys of his computer.

"What is it?" John's trained ear was able to pick up a slight sensitivity in the cold man, a crack in his façade.

"When we were in the vaults…" Cautious eyes shifted back in search of a response. John recognized the firm demeanor in his friend's eyes.

"Mm. We're not talking about the vaults, remember." His head tilted defensively as he tried to deflect the interrogation. "You've forgotten our little conversation on the plane." How could he?

"No, I remember…" His gaze fell distant as he recalled the desperate plea. "But… well, it's just that… I don't understand…"

"What is so hard to understand? We were both wound a bit too tight that night— it happens."

"No, Sherlock. It _doesn't…_ You _cried_ in front of me…" John leaned forward in his chair and rested a hand on his knee.

"John," pale lids fell as he tried to push the memory aside. "I asked you nicely." He began typing on his own laptop to try to distance himself from the conversation.

"So you're just going to pretend it never happened?"

"I was _trying_."

"Why is it so hard for you to admit you have emotions?" The fiery expression pierced through the brunette's attempt at avoiding the subject as the clicking of the computer suddenly halted.

What was he supposed to say? That he was stuck in a strange, unfamiliar place, and that he simultaneously hated Mary _and_ wanted her to come back because that's what it would take for John to be happy, and subsequently, make Sherlock happy? _Yes._

_That could never happen. So this is how it will stay. I will work harder to keep these wretched feelings in check, and John and Mary will return to their attempt at a functional life... _ _But we have to find her first_

"No, you know what, it's perfectly fine if you want to be a self-centered prick, because that's what you do, isn't it?" John set his laptop on the table and rose from his chair. "You just like to create this illusion that you can care, and then you pull the chord, tricking everybody." His hushed tone had risen as he pointed an accusatory finger at Sherlock. He was headed towards the door to leave when a solemn voice stopped him.

"Not everybody." The blond slowly turned to face his friend and paused for a moment.

"What was that?"

"Only you, John…" He used the click-clacks of the typing to hide the tremble in his voice. "There's no point in tricking anyone else… You're the only one worth keeping around." The words pursed John's lips.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"You're the only one who can help me save her, doctor." A feigned smile was shot in John's direction as the typing stopped. Reminding him of his "damsel" wife, the "doctor" card, even a smile—he knew exactly which strings to pull and how to pull them to wring compliance.

After a huff, the shorter man stormed back into the room and resumed his seated position.

"Alright… But I couldn't find anything on the double agent's contact history. He took a lot more care to cover his tracks than his fake his death."

"Hm, I encountered a similar problem, but I think I may have come up with a simple solution…"

"…Care to tell?" The doctor searched the silence in the room for insight.

"From what we understand, it is safe to assume that initially, the only two people who had knowledge of your wife's existence were Magnussen and his Informant, Jacob Korvich. Knowing Magnussen, it is _also _safe to assume he would not let that information go to waste, so in the event of his death, what is the informant to do?"

"Let people know… So _he _told this Raymond character that Mary never actually died?"

"Presumably, yes. Or he told a different interested party and word got around."

"Okay, so now what? We still don't know where he ran off to after his little charade."

"That may be true, but I looked into his previous place of residence, and it is worth a look into. I found a recurring address in the records of an abandoned warehouse in Greenwich. That particular warehouse is used informally to shelter homeless youths." The midday sun shining through the window silhouetted the slim figure as he turned to face his audience.

"Wait, wasn't he getting paid? Why was he living on the streets?"

"Maybe wanted to keep off the radar, didn't care too much, trying to stay under cover…" An accusatory glance shot towards the blonde. "Regardless, that would be the next logical step. Unless, of course, you have any suggestions."

"No, no…" A tired nod captured the attention of the analytic eyes.

Thin lips opened to speak, but shut after they decided better against it. _Please cheer up… You're killing me. _

_"_Very well, then. What time is the sitter coming?" John looked at his watch before responding,

"Eh, not for another four hours." He burrowed his head into his hands and let out a sigh. "I suggest we should-

"Get Mrs. Hudson?"

"…get some rest…" Sherlock picked up on the irritation in John's glare, but decided to keep going.

"Rest? You slept on the plane."

"For _half_ an hour before you got slapped and shouted at for insulting the stewardess." A smile of amusement danced onto the angular face as he recalled the scene.

"Whew, she was cross…" The slight snickering was contagious and eventually they were both laughing louder than intended, causing the baby to stir. "No, no, _no_ you don't!" The tall man exaggeratedly rushed over, knelt near the carriage and began trying to prevent the bloodcurdling cry that was sure to ensue. "Shh."

Soft green eyes blinked away sleep as she reached a tiny hand for the long fingers tucking the blanket under her chin.

"John."

"Right, on it." The baffled father stood and went to retrieve a bottle, leaving the two to their precious bonding time.

_What are you looking for? Your gaze is so intent, little monster… _The small eyes explored the detective's expression. He could feel her searching that place he locked away inside, the place he saved for all the muddying emotions. _Would you stop doing that? It hurts…_

"Here you go." John stood over the pair and held the warm bottle by the man's shoulder. "She's rather quiet. 'She alright?"

"Perfectly fine…" The tiny body went limp as familiar arms embraced her and held her close. "No… you're not a monster at all… You're a little angel."

* * *

_**A/N** Sorry if this took a while, I've been letting it simmer. I am starting to realize how difficult a complex plot can be for a person like me, haha. Please let me know your thought/comments/suggestions. I would love to hear it all. Thanks for reading, much love. _


	8. Chapter 8

As the two men approached the withered doors of the abandoned storehouse, they were greeted with a noxious smell and an overwhelming amount of homeless, angsty youth. The large area had been divided into tiny plots by visible, yet unmarked property lines. The residents ranged from small children barely old enough to walk to the early twenties, though most were in the 10-17 year range. Sherlock approached a seated adolescent boy with a slightly outstretched arm and a closed hand.

"Here, take this and stand up." He whispered as he abruptly forced the chair out from under the boy's scrawny weight. He dragged the chair across the cement floor with a proclaiming rake.

"Now what?" The doctor quietly mumbled as he watched his scene-making friend.

"Just watch." The voice was a soft aside before he hopped onto the chair and clapped his hands together. "Everybody, I've an announcement to make! My friend and I are looking for a certain someone and we need help." The detective pulled a full-page photograph of Korvich from his coat and held it for all to see. "If you give us information, and we find it useful, we are prepared to give a reward. Now, if you would give any information you have to this man, your help would be greatly appreciated." He motioned to the doctor before hopping off the chair and fleeing from the influx of people beginning to surround the blond.

"Where the _hell_ are you going?" John yelled back at his friend before he was forced to address the mass of angry teens. _That bastard_. "No, I can't hear everyone at once, single file, please… No, Miss, I'm sorry I can't help you find your sister." _Christ, this is going to take forever._

Meanwhile, Sherlock was scouring the tiny areas that had been recently abandoned for signs of the missing agent. If he was lucky, Jacob may have left some belongings behind, and if he was even luckier, those belongings would have remained untouched.

After examining about thirty meager excuses for beds and shooing away a handful of beggar children, he came across a potential match. The thin mattress resting directly on the floor had a sheet neatly covering it with a single pillow placed firmly in the center. The only other object in the cramped cell was a tiny bedside table with a small drawer. Sherlock pulled out a tiny flashlight to get a better look at the area before stepping closer. He noticed the floor was a bit tidier than the rest of the areas. The table had no sign of wear but had collected a thin layer of dust, suggesting it had only been abandoned for less than a week. The immaculate condition would suggest this was more than a homeless youth and probably closer to a trained agent.

To the left of the cubicle was a young woman sitting on a folded towel with her head bent back, almost 90 degrees, and pressed into the steel wall behind her. She noticed the man's attention and shifted her eyes to him reluctantly.

"Excuse me, do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?" The charm switch wasn't initially effective.

"Yes." Blond, matted hair fell gently as she turned her head to get a better glimpse of the man walking towards her.

"I had a friend who I believe was staying here, he had brown hair cropped rather close, green eyes, a bit squatty." He made gestures and smiled as he spoke.

"You know how many people come through here?" The frail girl was not amused.

"Yes, I realize. But I have reason to believe this is where he stayed." He pointed to the orderly cot and table beside him.

"Oh, Jacob?" Her shoulders perked up in interest.

"Exactly!"

"I was beginnin' to worry about him, something happen?" After the girl finished, she caught the hint of worry in her tone and tried to disguise her interest. "Not that it matters…"

"Well, my friend and I haven't heard from him in a while, and we just wanted to check in on him."

"Who are you? What do you want with Jacob?" Her defenses and posture shot up simultaneously. The detective could easily read the feelings the young woman bore for this world-class spy.

"Well, the truth is—and I really shouldn't be telling you—but he could be in some serious trouble… drug running… terrible business… So if you could tell me _anything_ that happened before he left…"

"No, Jacob never did anythin' of the sort… He was a good man!" the refusal molted into anger.

"We all have our dark sides, Miss. The information you tell me could save his life or get him killed- if he isn't dead already…" The charming façade melted away in an instant, leaving unsheathed icy-blue daggers to pierce her growing defenses. Tears began to form in the corners of her softening green eyes.

"…He got a call, about four, five days ago… He answered in a panic… He went rushin' about and came back to grab a few things… That was the last I saw him."

"What can you tell me about the call? What did he say? Who was he talking to?" Impatience and irritation rang through the demands.

"I don' know… It was quick— maybe less than a minute. He was real shocked, white like a ghost… I asked him where he was off to. He just said not to say anythin'… Can you 'elp him?" A tear fell.

"It's not really in my interest, but if it becomes my interest, I'll do what I can… I would thank you for your help, but you've told me nothing." A cold voice scathed as he returned to the bedside table, opened the drawer, and removed the object inside. He closed the drawer and slipped the broken mobile into his coat pocket in one swift motion before turning to leave. He spoke over his shoulder as he walked off.

"I hope things get better, but do trust me— Jacob isn't worth crying over." He left the awe-struck girl gaping and confused. He made long strides to the door and pulled John from the crowd of people.

"Thank you, thank you—no rewards, you're all useless." He only walked faster and motioned his head towards the door for the perplexed doctor to follow. As they made it out the door, John decided to verbalize a few of the pressing questions that had arisen.

"What the hell was that?" He pointed back at the building.

"Did you learn anything?"

"Not a damned thing!"

"Eh, I assumed as much. It can't hurt to try."

"What the _hell_ was the point of that?!"

"Don't get all ruffled. I gleaned a few things…stole, rather. We need to head back to Baker Street."

"Alright, I was able to find three potential areas the phone call Jacob received could have come from by getting the radius from call record and narrowing it down from there using general knowledge of the area." Blue eyes shifted in the glow of the computer screen. "Don't let her leave yet."

John was just paying the sitter as Sherlock stood from his seat and began heading for the door. "We've a madman to catch, don't we, little monster?!" He picked up the tiny girl struggling to her feet in her crib that had now become yet another addition to the flat's furniture, and gave her a peck on the cheek before carrying her over to her father. "Say goodbye to daddy, we're outing again."

With a roll of the eyes and an apologetic look to the sitter, John complied.

Feelings were mixed as the pair approached the third and final of the locations. While an encounter with this elusive, dangerous "Raymond" fellow was unfavorable, there was no time to waste. They had already spent enough time searching. Mary needed them.

The sun was far beyond set, and the couple prowled around the edges of a large, decrepit boathouse. They took turns cautiously peering through mud stained windows. With no obvious signs of vacancy, John clicked his Maglite on and kicked the front door open, gun drawn and adrenaline pumping. Sherlock followed directly behind, also armed.

The flashlights revealed the u-shaped platform of the unoccupied boathouse. Upon the dusty planks of the platform rested a pile of dated, wooden shipping crates, about five crates high. After exchanging a quick glance through the shadows, they decided to approach the obstruction from different sides to surround any potential assailant that may have hid there.

John motioned a countdown and they drew their weapons simultaneously to the backside of the crates. Their eyes met again after the pounce in search of confirmation. They were beginning to think the boathouse was just another bust when their hearts dropped at the all too familiar sound.

"Drop your weapons." A gravelly voice commanded as a silver pistol moved into the window's moonlight behind Sherlock. John pointed his gun in the man's direction, remaining perfectly calm.

"Why should we? We've got you outnumbered." As the brunette lowered his weapon, he made _the face_. The face he makes when John is wrong, and they're in deep shit. _Why's he doing that?_

"No. You don't, John." Another voice called from the shadows behind him. His heart didn't skip a beat; it stopped. His breath caught in his lungs the moment the vibrations from the barrel reached his ears and didn't begin again for what felt like a lifetime. The silence of the room stung his ears in a violent ringing, and the air in his lungs pleaded to be released, pounding harder with each second.

_No…God no… It can't be… _


	9. Chapter 9

_That voice, it isn't supposed to be here. Not like this. Not now… What do I say? I can't-_

The shaking knees finally gave in and fell to the wooden floor. The doctor's breathing grew shallow as his shoulder made contact with the cold ground. His vision blurred to a dark haze, and the sound of voices seemed to fade into the ringing of his empty thoughts.

"John!" The concerned detective lunged for his ailing friend.

"Move another inch and I'll happily blow your brains out." The cold steel pressed against his skin brought him to a halt. He disdainfully raised his hands over his head as he tried to verbally reach the fading blond.

"Listen to me, John. You're hyperventilating… You need to calm down. You need to focus." He struggled to get his friend's attention.

_Damn you… This really is all your fault, one way or another… All of this… I really should hate you… I do… I hate you, Sherlock Holmes…. _Cold lids grew heavy as his final thought ceased. Sherlock took a moment to close his eyes and clench his jaw as he realized the doctor would not wake any time soon. His attention then redirected to the all too familiar blue eyes.

"Well, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" The piercing blue daggers successfully hid all of the pain and conveyed enough anger in his heart to compensate for John's lack of consciousness. His head motioned to the gunman behind him.

"No. It isn't worth the breath…" The slightest hint of remorse was audible in her tone, even if only to the detective's perceptive ear. "On your knees." The nose of the Smith and Wesson tilted towards the ground as she spoke.

"So now you're _really_ going to kill me?" He felt another rough nudge of the barrel against his neck and did as he was told.

"C'mon, we haven't got time for this. Ray's waiting for Jacob and we've no idea here he is… This is your mess to clean up. Make it quick." The man spat on the floor on his way out, and Sherlock relaxed his shoulders at the removal of his gun.

"Don't think I won't do it… You really are the world's most overrated idiot." The woman's voice was softer now, and she received only a slightly perplexed look in response. "You think I left on my own accord? And now you come chasing after me. Expecting what?" She seemed to be fighting tears. "You want both of us to die?" Enraged eyes fell upon the unconscious doctor for a brief second.

"We will get you out of this mess, Mary."

"No… No, Sherlock. You won't… because there is way too much on the line this time. I can't risk it…" The words were more of an affirmation than a statement.

"If you keep this up, you'll never see Lucy again." There was no hesitation or waver in her response.

"If I go back, they'll kill her, and her father. Look, you can't argue the facts, and your coming here is just making them harder to bear... I'm going to fire two shots and you and John are going to give Geoff the slip…" She looked around before continuing. "After I do, hop off the ledge there and into the water, just to be safe." She pointed at the edge of the boat dock behind Sherlock as he rolled his eyes. She was about to fire her pistol when her face softened.

"Tell John I'm sorry… about everything… He really deserves so much more… and Lucy too… Tell him to forget about me... about all this." Solemn eyes turned to the detective's cold stare.

"No. I won't tell him. You can tell him yourself… next time." Sherlock reached for the crumpled pile of is flat mate and began shifting his body towards the ledge. With one decent heave, the limp body was falling to the water below. Mary reacted quickly and fired her hand gun before the splash. She fired a second time almost immediately afterwards, and Sherlock dove in to rescue his only friend.

* * *

_So, first of all, my apologies for my tardiness. Secondly, Imma be real. I'm not really feeling this one as much anymore. I'm not sure if it's the story or my classes starting up again, but it is taking a lot of effort to keep momentum. I will probably finish it solely because I need closure, but I fear for the sake of quality. And on quality, I am rather dissapointed with this one. Please tell me your thoughts on what I can do to salvage the story; I need it x.x_


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